[Boston—Sunday, 3 February 1867]
Sunday. Wet, with a thick fog—at home all the morning, reading Willson’s poems & those of his wife and recalling his singular but pure & purifying presence. How glad he was to follow his wife none knew but himself—we could but guess and strangely enough his verses as well as hers are those of persons fitted for departure or perhaps more distinctively, unfitted for this life—they are full of intimations of the future, and seem almost at times to transmit the spiritual voice. It is this quality indeed which distinguishes their volumes and makes their verses poetry. They both possessed this faculty and appear from the structure of their minds eminently fitted for each other.
Mrs Hall amused us the other night by the story of a man who brought a poem once to Mr Hall in five cantos which the author announced to be of engrossing interest. What are the topics? asked Mr Hall.
Poet—
First canto—Heaven
Second canto—Heaven continued
Third canto—Hell
Fourth canto—Hell continued
Fifth canto—Battle of Detroit!!!
